


Everything About IOU

by doctor_not_your_girlfriend, Sanashiya



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Grief/Mourning, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-21
Updated: 2014-08-21
Packaged: 2018-02-14 05:15:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2179317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctor_not_your_girlfriend/pseuds/doctor_not_your_girlfriend, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanashiya/pseuds/Sanashiya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Reichenbach. John is supposed to be moving on after Sherlock's death, but while browsing the Internet, he discovers a forum dedicated to diehard fans of Sherlock Holmes, those who never believed he was an impostor. Intrigued and excited, he decides to register anonymously to share his feelings with the faithful followers of Sherlock...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything About IOU

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Everything About IOU](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/68655) by Sanashiya. 



> **Author's Note:**  
>  Hi everyone. Here I am with a little Sherlock fic (I must release my fan girl frustrations...) that I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, and the cast of characters are the creations of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; and the setting is owned by Moftiss, our mentors in the realm of sadism.
> 
> Note: Spoilers for the first two seasons of Sherlock and events to come in the third season.  
> Note 2: This is my first real Sherlock fic. It may be that the characters are a little OOC, I apologize in advance, I promise, I'm doing my best.  
> Note 3: I love geeks. I love writing about geeks. Forgive me in advance for the number of internet conversations, SMS, etc. there will be in this story.  
> Note 4: I'm bad at coming up with titles. This fic is no exception to the rule. Mea culpa.  
> That's all for now. Enjoy!
> 
>  **Translator’s Note:**  
>  This chapter was originally posted in French at [here](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/9522406/1/Everything-about-IOU) at fanfiction.net.

xXxXx

John had always been a bit of a geek. Well, not really while he was in Afghanistan, because he didn't have much of a choice, but when he returned to England and Ella had told him to keep a blog, even if he wasn't exactly thrilled at first, he'd quickly got caught up in it. The blog had gone well, for as long as it had lasted, but after Sherlock's death, he had abandoned it after a final post: 

_He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him._

That message had several purposes; first, to explain to readers of the blog that Sherlock was not an impostor. Of course, if Moriarty had managed to fool them in the first place, John couldn't see how they could be persuaded by that one sentence, but you never know. Second, in case Sherlock was somehow still alive—if he ever visited this blog, he would see that his closest friend had always believed in him, and his words on the roof had changed nothing.

Anyway. It mattered little to him if there were still readers to witness his gesture of faith, and Sherlock, from where he was, would have a hard time reading it. The most important thing of all, the real purpose of the operation, the third goal, was that it had slightly comforted him to publish this post.

Since then, he had returned to see Ella, his psychologist. The young woman couldn't actually relieve the pain that had lodged itself in his chest, but John knew that without her, it would probably be even worse.

And he found himself there again almost every week, sitting on that chair, looking haggard and lost, staring off blankly. Ella understood; she wasn't trying to rush him. Several sessions had passed before she asked:

"And the blog?" John looked up at her, his first real reaction since they had resumed their sessions.

"What about the blog?" he asked defensively.

"Have you given it up?" This time, a burst of anger surged through his veins. As if it were possible to continue when his source of inspiration had dried up! It was a blog about Sherlock, for Sherlock. And Sherlock had disappeared, so the blog had no more reason to go on.

"Obviously I've given it up. I had nothing to say."

"Why?" This time he looked at her as if she had been hiding a mental disability all along—or had he become smarter in his time with Sherlock? No, it wasn't likely. So he decided to explain as if she were a five-year-old child.

"Because it was a blog about Sherlock, for Sherlock, and since Sherlock has disappeared, the blog doesn't have any reason to go on."

"I don't believe that."

"How's that?"

"It was not a blog for Sherlock, or about Sherlock. I asked you to write to help you free yourself from your stress and trauma. Sherlock held a place of importance because you experienced all these stories with him, but the blog was not for him."

"Well, it's become that!" John was angry.

Ella didn't answer—she didn't want to back her client into a corner. The goal was not to exasperate him. She simply stared at him, and John stared back. Despite what Sherlock had said, he was no idiot. He saw that look in her eyes.

"You want me to write again," he noted calmly.

"I think it might help you, John."

"I don't think so. For me, writing has become synonymous with 'write about Sherlock.' And I think I couldn't..." He paused, his voice breaking on the last word. "I can't write anymore. Sherlock is gone, I can't write anymore."

"And if you wrote about something else?" the young woman asked gently.

"About what? I don't want to write about anything else."

Writing about Sherlock was provocative, exhilarating. Relating the stories of what they had experienced, stepping back, knowing that people were reading and taking the time to comment, it was good. But if it wasn't about Sherlock, he wasn't interested. It wasn't provocative or exhilarating. It was boring, and John hated boredom as much as Sherlock had hated it in his lifetime. Not to the point of firing bullets at the walls, but close.

"How about forums?”

"What do you mean, forums?" John couldn't see where she was going with this.

"You know, I am not necessarily asking you to write something with a beginning and an end, like you did for your friend's adventures. The real purpose of writing this is to free you from these oppressive feelings, from this sadness. It doesn't matter to me if you write on a blog or you write on a forum, or Facebook, or Twitter, as long as what you manage to write gives you some relief."

"I don't see what could possibly give me relief there." He could be stubborn, and Ella, competent and pleasant therapist that she was, sometimes offered methods that he highly doubted.

"You don't see it, but I think it could help you. Will you try it, at least?" John shrugged.

"All right. If you want. I'll try."

A smile appeared on Ella's face, ending their session there.

xXxXx

When he sat down at his computer, John had a strange feeling of déjà vu—which, though it had been several years, was still as alive as ever. It was that feeling of  _I've got nothing to write. Nothing happens to me_.

His blog hadn't changed a bit since the last time his mouse had clicked on it, and it had already been two years since he’d last pulled up the page. The site counter was still stuck on 1895 (he had never fixed it), comments from his latest article were still disabled, and the message from  _Anonymous_  (a.k.a. Jim Moriarty) still told them how sorry he was to have hacked their blog and entered their apartment. Well, from where he was now, he had no reason to be sorry, right? This did not prevent John from feeling unnamed hatred at the mere sight of the pointless message. Everything was his fault. And the whole world had believed it. After so long, John was still unable to understand how people were able to give credence to that web of lies. Somehow, all it took was for a complete nobody to show up with a trap that was a little too well put together, and suddenly everyone was eating out of the palm of his hand. As if the years of following the adventures of Sherlock on this blog didn't count.

God, it was painful to navigate back to these pages...all of the comments were still there, and Sherlock's with them, of course. Comments he had written with his own fingers, connected to a living body. Comments that changed into a conversation about having brunch while they were in the same room. So many memories...

John felt his breath hitch, knowing sobs were soon to follow, and he held his breath to choke them back. Two tiny tears stung his eyes, but he managed to keep them under control. However, the pain that hammered in his heart wasn't even close to going away. All this time, and the pain hadn't changed a bit...John never really expected it to leave.

He was browsing through the entry he had posted on The Great Game, as he called this story—when Jim Moriarty sent puzzles to Sherlock and he had to solve them in a given time. As for the conclusion of the "game," the darkness of the pool, the bluish reflections, the lapping of the water, Sherlock's echoing footsteps, the bombs hidden under his coat, the voice of Moriarty...John felt like none of these details would ever be erased from his brain. He could almost recite what they had said that night.  _You can talk, Johnny boy._  His voice...a psychopath’s voice.  _Sorry boys! I am soooo changeable!_  Just when they thought they might be saved. And  _Stayin' Alive_ , echoing in the silence. It may have been the music that saved their lives, but ever since, John hadn't been able to listen to the Bee Gees the same way.

Then something caught his attention. A message, posted just after one from his ex-girlfriend Sarah (God, he hadn't thought about her in a long time). He certainly thought he had turned off comments...when in fact, he had only done that on the last post. Anyone could still add their two cents to other posts. It was just, in general...people weren't doing it. The blog was forgotten, like Sherlock, like John. Like Moriarty.

Except for the person who posted that last comment. It dated from March, more than three months earlier, and there was nothing really special about it, except that it was meant personally for him.

_Still alive? March 16th 16:13_

John stared at the message for a while. This turn of phrase...was it someone he knew? Who else would want to know if he were still alive? But all his acquaintances had turned their backs on Sherlock, apart from Mrs Hudson and some  _very, very_  loyal followers—who he could count on one hand.

Or he was a stranger merely reacting to the last sentences of the post:

_Which is when Moriarty's phone rang. He took the call and called off his gunman. He was letting us live. And, as I finally breathed out, he left._

_And that's how Sherlock Holmes and I lived to see another day._

It was what he had written, exactly. So there was someone, somewhere on the web, who wanted to know in real life ...

_Sh ..._

He immediately dismissed the name that came into his head. It was not "Sh" and it would never be "Sh." But "Sh" or not, against all odds, the idea that someone, anyone, a stranger, a pseudonym on a web page, cared whether he was alive, slightly boosted John's morale, and he wanted to thank him. No one had asked after him in far too long.

_Yes, still alive. Thank you for asking. June 13th 20:33_

He posted the message and went to check the other blog posts, just to be sure, but the stranger had only posted on that one.

But in the meantime, a new idea was forming in John's mind. This stranger might be an isolated case, but if he asked how John was, maybe he didn't believe the rumour that Sherlock was a fake (or maybe the stranger was just curious, but that wasn't what interested John). Up until now, since he quit his blog, he had kept off of Internet, but maybe there were other people on the web who also believed in Sherlock?

It was worth the search. John had always hated seeing Sherlock's name dragged through the mud...maybe there were other faithful out there, hidden behind pseudonyms. If they existed, John wanted to know it—loneliness didn’t protect him, not like Sherlock. On the contrary, even. Loneliness was killing him.

In the bar of the search engine, he began with a routine search,  _Sherlock Holmes_. And, of course, the first results to appear were the expected newspaper articles about the suicide of Sherlock the fake, recounting his fraud and his manipulative exploits. John chose not to read them—he already felt like hurling his mug of tea onto the rug. He had better try to be more specific with his keywords.

 _Sherlock Holmes is not an impostor._  It might be a little long, but John quickly realized that length was not the problem. It was rather that the search engine ignored the small words between keywords. Searching for  _Sherlock Holmes is not an impostor_  or  _Sherlock Holmes is an impostor_  was the same thing. It meant finding a list of insulting articles about his friend.

He had to go back to basics.  _Sherlock Holmes real_. But then he landed on "Sherlock Holmes is not real," and was taken for the same ride. This time the mug narrowly avoided the floor.

 _Sherlock Holmes fans_. If he didn't find anything with that, he would stop loading the page before having to buy a new mug...but this time, the results were (slightly) more satisfying. Overall, they were old comments on blogs or forums proclaiming, "I'm a fan of Sherlock Holmes," but he ended up finding, after jumping from link to link, a rather pitiful forum whose fairly eloquent title was  _SH FANS_. Below the banner, a subtitle read:  _Fans of Sherlock Holmes, in Life, in Death, in Deceit._

That,  _that_  announced something more concrete. John stared at the home page for a while, not daring to click anywhere, heart pounding, and then decided to make another cuppa before exploring it, to give himself time to think.

So, a forum. Run by fans of Sherlock Holmes. In life, in death, in deceit. Fans no matter what. The faithful. Just the kind of people John was looking for.

But when he thought about it, he was a little afraid of what he might discover. His idea of loyalty might not be the same as these strangers’...and now that he knew there were people who supported his version of Sherlock...it would be disappointing to find out a minute later that they were just a bunch of idiots.

Yes, he was sceptical. But he had learnt to be, even when it came to insignificant things. This was why he finally decided to wait a bit before exploring the forum. He wisely saved it to the favourites bar in his browser and went to bed, finding it even harder to sleep than usual.

xXxXx

A week had passed, and John hadn't looked at the forum. Which was starting to become  _The Forum_  in his head. This tiny platform was becoming the holy of holies in his thoughts, and he dared less and less to actually check it out. Fear of being disappointed. The idea that Sherlock could still have fans had slightly relieved his pain, and he didn't want this new therapy to disappear so quickly. When it was no longer effective, then he would decide ...

For now, he had an appointment with Ella. The rain was beating on the window, and he had already sat for ten minutes without saying a word, thinking. The psychologist respected his silence, but when it dragged on a bit too long, she decided to put in her two cents.

"So, John, have you written?" God, how many times she said that sentence since he had known her? John answered her question with another question.

"Do you like reading, Ella?" He read the surprise in her chocolate eyes, and she encouraged him to continue with a slight nod.

"Well...yes, I guess. Like many people."

"That's why you always want to solve everything through writing? Don't get me wrong, it's just that it intrigues me."

"I don't always try to solve everything by writing. It's just that in your case, I think it might help. Anything new?" She had managed to turn the conversation back to her advantage, to take back the reins. Nice one. She was a psychologist for a reason. John smirked.

"No, not much. Unless you think that seven words count."

"It depends on what was in those seven words," Ella replied. "If they were valuable to you or not. Were they?"

"Mine? No...okay, yes. A little bit. But less than theirs."

"Theirs? You talked with someone?"

"One couldn't really say that we talked. This person asked me a question and I answered. End of story."

It was as if he had been holding it in all week, waiting to talk about it. Now Ella listened, looking genuinely interested, and he wanted to tell her. She had become the only person in the world to whom he could say anything, the only one able to help him. It would be a shame to refuse her help.

"This question was important to you?"

There was a long silence, during which John seriously considered his response, and finally, he answered in a low voice:

"Yes, it was. It was important. A stranger asked how I was getting on. That hasn't happened since...I've lost track. And it made me happy. Someone still cares about me; I mean...it made me...it made me happy."

"Do you know who that person was?"

"No idea. A pseudonym on my blog. A stranger. It doesn't matter. What matters is that I still exist, to that person. Someone out there hasn't forgotten me...and hasn't forgotten Sherlock."

"How do you know that this person hasn't forgotten Sherlock? He or she asked how you were getting on, right?"

"Yes...but I'm not...I was just a spectator, a  _blogger_. On the internet, I gave Sherlock a way to live on. In asking how I am, the message this person sent me was: 'I haven’t forgotten Sherlock.' At least...that's how I see it." Ella was silent for a moment, and John wondered what she was thinking. Did she think it was stupid?

"John, maybe the person sent you this message with you in mind, right? You are not inseparable from Sherlock Holmes. You are you."

The idea seemed incongruous for a moment. It was him? Without Sherlock Holmes? Someone was interested in him and not in Sherlock? No, that was stupid. Sherlock was the sun, and he was like one of those cheap, glow-in-the-dark cereal box toys, lit up by the light. The sun had long since died, and the glow had faded. It lay in the dark on a night-stand and no one paid it any attention. A simple toy, fun at the time, but now outdated, fallen into solitude and boredom.

He shook his head.

"The 'me' that I was, Sherlock made him interesting."

It was why their friendship was so special. Sherlock was the illuminated side, and he remained in the shadows, but they complemented each other perfectly. He had rediscovered a reason to live because Sherlock had needed him and he needed Sherlock to continue living. When he entered the lab at St Bartholomew's Hospital, he never thought he would reach such a degree of fusion with the man who, via his mobile, was able to find out almost everything there was to know about him.

Except they were two halves, and now one of the two halves was gone, and the imbalance that resulted was too important. That is—he was imbalanced.

As if she knew what he was thinking, Ella said, "Do you think that you’ll never find someone like Sherlock, John?"

He looked up at her wearily. It went without saying. Nobody could ever be "like Sherlock." John was ordinary, but Sherlock...he was amazing, from all points of view.

"I'm not looking. There is no one like Sherlock."

"On the basis of personality, perhaps not. But who says that there’s not someone in this world who could matter to you as much as him, in the future?" It seemed impossible... "Not necessarily a replacement for him," said Ella, "but for someone to take over for him. It's possible, you know. As someone who has already divorced and remarried—”

"We were not a couple," John said tightly through clenched teeth.

"That's just one example. What I mean is that it's time for you to move on, John. You're stuck in the past as if you're waiting for something. It’s time to move on and find new interests. To find people who will take care of you, and in whose eyes you'll be as important as you were in the eyes of Sherlock Holmes."

John turned his head toward the window, slightly irritated. She could talk! She didn't know anything...she didn't know the value of the friendship that had existed between them, and she didn't know what it was like to lose it. And above all, to see it all go to pieces before his eyes.

 _God_ , why,  _why_  had Sherlock killed himself?

xXxXx

**Author's Note:**

>  **Translator's Note:**  
>  Here is the first chapter! I've attempted to preserve as much of the style and tone of the original as possible. I will be posting chapters as soon as they’re translated (once or twice a week). My sincere thanks to Sanashiya for her feedback and collaboration.


End file.
